Tearing Down Towers
by SpecialAgentZiva
Summary: For years, the Holmes brothers have been the closest of friends; their relationship is a tower, built strong enough to resist anything. Or so they believed… These are the incidents that tore them apart, bit by bit. - Companion to Collision Course.
1. The Holmes Brothers

**A/N: Hello world. :) This fic is a sort of companion fic to Collision Course. I suggest you read that fic before this one as it outlines the relationship of Lestrade/Sherlock through the years and it gives vital info on some of the incidents. I'm not likely to repeat myself when it comes to these incidents; detail may be brief, so I do suggest you read Collision Course. But if you insist on reading just this, then go for it? ;D Please enjoy this chapter.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"Sherlock, dear, come down to the table!"

The too-sweet voice of his mother churned his stomach but he got up anyway, well aware of the consequences of not showing up at all. He rarely let anyone decide his actions for him but his mother was another story. It has been years since he'd had any love for her at all. In his mind, she was a monster trapped within the body of a woman, losing a battle she didn't even know she was part of. Since his father's death two years prior, she had been drinking nonstop and, though Mummy had previously stressed how a proper a lady should act, alcohol turned her violent often.

It wasn't that he feared her. He could hold his own against her biting words and violent tendencies - even more so when his brother was at his side. Somewhere in his mind he still held on to the woman he knew his mother used to be and that all on its own stopped him fighting back. It was foolish, he knew. A weakness he couldn't stand to have. But it was there and very real. So, rather than yelling back that he'd like to finish his experiment first, Sherlock got up from his rickety chair and made his way down to the dining room.

He took the stairs slowly, allowing his eyes time to take in everything. Observation had always been key in his mind. He liked to see, and enjoyed seeing _everything_. There was no excuse for missing the tiniest detail, and thus he would constantly come down the stairs this way, gaze sweeping the room. At first, nothing seemed out of place. Nothing at all. The overly clean white carports lay unstained, potted plants rested unmoved, television off and bookshelf untouched.

Despite his wide range of seeing, there had always been one problem with Sherlock: he'd often get so busy looking for the small details that he'd overlook the obvious. Today was much the same. At first he noticed nothing at all, and would've continued to do so if not for a rather loud cough off to his right. Startled, the boy (barely fifteen years old then) jumped a tiny bit before taking a look at the figure who'd coughed. A smile lit up his face as he recognized the individual.

"Mycroft!" he felt like a little boy calling his brother's name that way, but it couldn't be helped. Mycroft was twenty-two and had long since left home, only occasionally returning. It was certainly unexpected for him to turn up on a regular day like this. Grinning wildly, Sherlock launched himself down the stairs - only barely stumbling over his long limbs - and into his brother's waiting embrace. He'd never been one for physical contact but his brother was an exception.

"Sherlock," Mycroft wrapped his arms around his brother, smiling in just the same way. "Mummy tells me you've been moved to the advanced classes like you requested. I trust you're doing well?"

"Quite," Sherlock didn't even notice the overly formal tone. It was normal, and had been for the entire four years that Mycroft had been out in the world on his own, making his way up the ranks in the government. It was too mundane a job for Sherlock to ever consider himself but if his brother enjoyed it, that was that. "And the government?"

"Boys!" Mummy's voice interrupted them as she came around the corner, precariously balancing a plate of steaks in her left hand. For fear that she might drop them (an alcoholic carrying food? not the best idea), the boys let go of one another and Mycroft took the plate from her. He was still smiling at his brother as he placed it on the table and took his own seat right next to Sherlock. Since their father's death Mycroft could have easily claimed the head of the table but he'd always seemed more at home between his brother and his mother.

Sometimes it was a good place to be. He could play referee and stop any fights threatening to break out.

"Mother, did you know Mycroft was coming?" Sherlock kept his voice as polite as he could but he avoided Mummy's gaze, preferring to stare at the food in front of him. He'd never really been the kind of boy to eat whatever was put in front of him but Mycroft had always insisted he eat something. Somehow Mycroft's insistence meant more to him than Mummy's. Either way, he was going to be eating something, whether he was hungry or not. At least the steak was good - he knew that for a fact. The chef may not be the best cook when it came to foreign delicacies but he could definitely pull off an amazing steak.

An awkward silence followed. Mycroft shot a quick glare towards his mother, unaware that Sherlock had seen it, before he coughed and announced, "It was supposed to be a surprise."

Sherlock took this to mean 'Mummy was supposed to inform you but didn't.' Instead of pointing this out, however, he smiled and turned sideways to get a good look at his brother. Mycroft turned as well, allowing himself to be observed. This was common between them - a touch of observation practice and a sort of 'right or wrong?' game of deductions.

"You've come from Brixton," Sherlock announced after a moment. "Easy, your jacket is still a bit wet because you forgot your umbrella. That's the only place you could logically have been and it's rained there recently. You're starting to get paid more. Your suit is obviously higher priced, probably tailored somewhere in London. You were rushed this morning. You've nicked yourself shaving and I've never known you to do that, you take such care. So this was a last minute plan. You had nothing to do and decided to visit, probably called Mummy while I was up in my room."

"And you've been doing another experiment?" Mycroft didn't bother acknowledging his brother's deductions as true - of course they were.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"You always are, aren't you?"

"True."

* * *

Mycroft, unfortunately, never stayed for long. Before he knew it, Sherlock was alone again. Alone with himself and his experiments. He liked it that way, most of the time. But alone also meant alone with his mother and that was not exactly the best place to be. The minute his brother left, Sherlock locked himself in his room and got right back to his experiment. Pouring battery acid on human fingers and judging the rate it took to dissolve was definitely interesting.

The next time his brother would visit was on far worse terms. It was barely three months later when Sherlock had woken to find the people his mother employed running around haphazardly, tripping over each other. Some seemed to be crying but far more were dry-eyed. And amongst the chaos was Mycroft.

Normally, he'd launch himself at his brother as he had the night of the dinner. This time, however, he restrained himself. Something was off. There was no reason for Mycroft to be there. It wasn't Christmas or Thanksgiving or any other tedious holiday his mother insisted on celebrating. This was unlike most times when Mycroft had decided to visit on impulse - those had been happy days which Sherlock always remembered fondly. There was no smile on his brother's face. No smile on anyone's face, really, and his mother wasn't in amongst the chaos.

"Mycroft?" he called tentatively, weaving through the crowd. It seemed to part for him (and why shouldn't it? He was, after all, the Mistress's son). "Mycroft, what's happening?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft breathed his name. He was obviously tired. Probably barely got out of bed when he arrived if his rumpled clothing and tired eyes were anything to go on. "Sherlock, are you alright? I was looking for you, but-"

"What're you going on about?"

"Nobody told you?" Dead silence. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, really, but Mummy… well, we knew she got into too much alcohol…"

"The point?" It wasn't like Mycroft to skip around like this. Sherlock was getting frustrated with his brother - a new feeling all on its own. Unlike most siblings, they'd gotten along quite well throughout their entire lives. The seven year difference between them seemed to disallow much fighting, lest they be childish.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. "Sherlock, the point is Mummy's dead. She overdosed on alcohol."

"Oh." Sherlock nodded slowly. He'd been expecting this for some time. Their mother's poor liver wouldn't have lasted forever and Mummy had never given any indication that she'd stop with the alcohol. Somehow this didn't really shock him at all. The attachment to his mother had been fading over time. He'd been more attached to who she was before the alcohol than who she was when she died.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft seemed genuinely concerned, however he wasn't surprised at all by his brother's lack of emotional response. Neither Holmes had ever had a particular interest in revealing emotions or even feeling them at all.

"Quite. Really, I am. So… then… if Mummy's dead, are you taking the house?"

Mycroft didn't say anything at first. He looked rather uncomfortable, that piercing gaze of his wandering around the room for a good half a minute before resettling on his brother. How did he explain this? "I… no, Sherlock. I don't think so. I can't afford to be this far away from my work…"

"Then what about me?" Sherlock sounded like a child. By law, of course, he was a child, but he'd always strove to be seen as more mature, older than his age. Now he sounded vulnerable and confused. How could his brother leave him?

"You'll come with me. If you want, of course. We're not selling the house. It'll stay here until I figure out what to do with it. But if you'd like, you can come live with me."

Where else was he to go? A fifteen-year-old could hardly do well on the streets. Sherlock was far more intelligent than most but he envisioned a better future than that of the homeless. So he nodded his assent and the deal was closed - he would live with Mycroft. He was given the instructions to pack the necessities and things he was sentimental about. There weren't many of the latter besides the skull his brother had bought him for his eleventh birthday. He'd wanted to bring his experiments but Mycroft had insisted that the acid would spill all over everything and thus he'd been forced to leave it behind.

For a week after his mother's death he was alone in the house. It was eery almost. The place had started so full of life. He could remember when he was young, five at most, awkwardly practicing violin with his brother next to him reading, his father in front of him instructing, and his mother not far away, in the kitchen, cooking. Since that time the number of Holmes in the house had dwindled down to one and would soon become zero. Mycroft was scheduled to pick him up later on that day.

He spent that day saying goodbye to everything in the house. Sentimentality was not normally part of his routine but he could afford it, considering he would be off with his brother for however long. It had been hard to let go of the books but he'd compensated by keeping his father's well polished violin. A beautiful thing it was. Normally he wouldn't keep things around just for beauty but this one held a higher power; its haunting notes could allow him to think whenever he needed it.

It was around five o'clock when his brother's car rolled into the long driveway. Smiling, Sherlock waved at the home he'd known for fifteen years. It was exciting, really. Leaving with his brother - his best friend - on a new adventure in a new place. A not very far away place but new nevertheless. As he left, however, he couldn't help but think that nothing could ever go bad now that he had Mycroft.

If only he knew.

**A/N: Dun dun dun dun... Okay, this is going to sound like an odd request, but honestly, I'm not exactly well-versed in types of drugs. If you know of any, can you please suggest a narcotic that can be taken through a needle? And no, obviously, I don't mean for me, but I need a name for whatever Sherlock will be taking and saying "the drugs, the drugs, the drugs" just gets repetitive... Thanks in advance?**


	2. Letting Things Lie

**A/N: Chapter 2 of Tearing Down Towers. :) Thanks to all who've read and reviewed so far, I appreciate it! So, now that we've seen what the brothers' relationship started as... let's take a look at the incidents that tore them apart. ;D I don't own Sherlock, but please enjoy.**

At first, life in his brother's home was perfect. No one bothering him in the middle of experiments, no one screaming at him in a drunken rage. None of that at all. However, things did not stay that way. He quickly grew lonely, isolated in his brother's consistent absence. Mycroft's job called for him constantly. He'd even left in the middle of a game of deductions once (something he'd never, _ever_ done before). It was frustrating to say the least. Tension was beginning to suffocate them by the end of the first month together.

It was nearly midnight by the time Mycroft got home that day. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, was still awake. However, he wasn't in his room working on his latest experiment as expected. Instead, he was seated in the living room reading a book far too advanced for most youths. Those ice blue eyes of his didn't even raise as his brother entered the room. Mycroft frowned. Had it really come to this? Was his brother so irritated as to ignore him?

"Sherlock?" He tested the theory carefully, taking a few steps towards his brother. When Sherlock didn't respond at all, he crossed the room and tapped him firmly on the shoulder. Somewhere in the month of living together they'd stopped embracing every time they saw one another and he was truly starting to miss that. "Sherlock, don't ignore me."

"What, like you've been doing?" Sherlock let the book drop from his grasp, his eyes flashing. It wasn't particularly nice to be irritated with Mycroft but how else was he to feel? It was like an unwritten rule that every single friendly relationship would argue at some point in their lives. This seemed to be the 'some point' for both boys despite each of them hoping it wouldn't last long.

"You know what my work calls for-"

"Your work is boring. Why do you even bother with it?"

Mycroft frowned, picking up the book his brother had discarded. He turned away to replace it in the bookshelf it had come from, not wanting to see the anger in his brother's features. Yes, he could understand the issue from Sherlock's point of view, but it wasn't like he was leaving home every few hours out of choice. Hell, he'd barely gotten any sleep in the past week because of work calls. Sherlock didn't exactly fit perfectly into that sort of schedule.

"I bother with it because I need the money. Sherlock, you know I can't just live off deductions. It's not possible."

Sherlock huffed. "Sure it is. I'll prove it to you."

"Right, call me when you do," Mycroft rolled his eyes. When he turned back around to look at his brother, Sherlock was gone. Sighing, the man fell back onto the couch and let his eyes close. Sleep was probably his greatest friend at the moment. He was utterly exhausted from a day of stopping (and starting) wars without any tea break in there at all.

Frustrated as he was, Sherlock was in his room in a flash, door closed firmly behind him. He sat down at his designated 'experiment table' but couldn't concentrate at all. After a few minutes of trying to force concentration, he simply got up (leaving a eyedropper full of acid on the table) and stomped over to the phone. Quickly, he dialled the familiar numbers to Scotland Yard, not entirely sure why he was calling but positive he'd find a reason. Sure enough, when he grabbed for the newspaper, a reason presented himself: a woman had just been murdered in downtown London.

The paper itself didn't give much detail but one thing did catch his eye immediately. He smiled a bit, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waited for someone to pick up the phone. Finally his call was answered and a familiar voice flooded in the line. Still smiling, he greeted, "Lestrade, hello!"

"You sound awfully cheery," the voice commented back, accentuated by a loud sigh. Obviously another late night for Lestrade, then. "I suppose you've heard about the latest murder, then? What did we miss?"

The overly tired tone made it sound as though he wasn't interested at all, but Sherlock knew better. Unlike most others employed by Scotland Yard, Lestrade had actually taking to listening to him - even when he'd called around midnight, like now. "The nail polish."

"What?" Lestrade sounded incredulous to say the least. "How can her nail polish have anything to do with… well, anything?"

"Papers say she lived in a bad part of town and hadn't paid her lease in months," Sherlock replied smugly. "She surely couldn't afford the brand of nail polish in the picture."

"I don't even want to know how you know different brands of nail polish."

"I don't care, normally, but I have books on everything. The point is, she can't afford that nail polish. She had a boyfriend, didn't she? Just as poor as she was? I suggest you start looking for a discrete, rich but jealous lover or a close friend. The first is more likely though. People tend to kill out of love than anything else. How boring."

"Right, of course you'd find love boring."

"I didn't say that. I said it was boring that they killed out of love. They're always so reckless. It's the serial killers that are interesting, and that's because they think. Their drive isn't always love."

Well, this kid was definitely messed up. On the other end of the line, Lestrade swiped a hand over his face and glanced at the clock. God, he was tired. Too tired to put up with this tonight. "Right, thanks. I'll make sure to let the rest of Scotland Yard know. I've got to run though."

"What? Why!" Sherlock sounded positively outraged. He'd called to escape the frustration from his brother and here it was again. Lestrade couldn't just leave in the middle of a conversation. It wasn't right - he needed Sherlock! Didn't he?

"Because I have a life and it's past midnight?" Sherlock had to acknowledge that Lestrade did sound exhausted. "Look, call me tomorrow if you have anything else to say. Otherwise, good night."

The line cut dead and Sherlock sighed, replacing the phone in its holder. He stumbled over to his bed and fell back on it, immediately reaching for a book. Normally he'd just go get the one he'd been reading earlier but that would mean seeing Mycroft and he certainly didn't want that. Instead, he grabbed a book on blood splatter patterns and allowed himself to get lost in the information it presented.

He couldn't be sure exactly what time it was when a knock on the door pulled him out of the books. He frowned at it. There was only really one possibility of who it could be, unless they'd somehow acquired a housekeeper in however long he'd been reading. Another knock came and he ignored this one as well, quite aware that his behaviour was childish. The door began to open slowly and he focussed his attention completely on the book, feigning ignorance.

"Sherlock, I'm not stupid, you know," Mycroft called as he stepped into the room. Sherlock only shrugged and leaned closer to the book, willing his brother away. Maybe if he thought hard enough… "Come on, you've read that book thirty times. You know the cause of basically any type of blood splatter pattern. Don't pretend you don't know I'm here, you'd have to be deaf for that. And you're not… you're just selectively deaf, obviously."

When Sherlock still refused to respond, Mycroft sighed and made his way over to his brother's bed, sitting on the end of it. "Why are we fighting, Sherlock? We've always been close. I'm… I'm sorry that I haven't had time to spend with you, I really am, but my work doesn't let me decide my schedule."

"You left in the middle of my turn deducing," Sherlock huffed, tossing the book to the side. He was glaring despite himself - he wanted badly for things to go back the way before Mummy had died, when seeing Mycroft meant happiness, even if they didn't see one another often. This was just… irritating. But he refused to come to any sort of compromise without getting in the last word, whether or not his brother was actually apologizing.

"And I apologize for that." How odd it was that Mycroft could sound formal while apologizing. Then again, any Holmes apologizing at all was a rare thing, so Sherlock would have to take what he got. "You knew when you came here - before that, even - that my work would dictate my schedule, Sherlock. As… interesting as it may be to stay here constantly, I do need some way to keep us both alive."

"Become a farmer than."

Mycroft snorted. "Did you really just suggest that? I always thought something like that would be too… mundane for you."

"I didn't suggest it for me," Sherlock's eyes shot daggers at his brother. "I suggested it for you. Because then you could quite easily grow the food we need to live and you'd have time on your hands. Or get a proper job. Stop pretending you're more powerful than the British Government!"

"I thought I actually was the British Government?"

"What?"

"You always claim that I am. Just quoting you."

The brothers both smiled at this, smiled at each other and the world around them. The tension began to melt away, argument obviously over. But Sherlock, never one to let things lie, declared, "I still think you should be a farmer."

Somehow that set them both off and they were laughing, argument and tension long forgotten. The image of Mycroft farming just didn't fit. And as they laughed their way into the night, both decided that that was that - they were done with the anger, the frustration, the arguments. Things would go back to being perfect as always, brotherly love keeping them together.

Once again, if only they knew.

* * *

Sherlock had never been the best in school. Academically, of course, he excelled above his peers, leaving even the advanced class students in the dust. Socially, however, he was probably the least liked of them all. It was said that rude youths often had power and excelled up through the social ranks, but not Sherlock. He'd have none of that. He was perfectly content studying by himself and watching the rest of the world go by. Unfortunately, while he didn't seek out the world, the world still sought out him.

It had been about three months since the Holmes brothers had gotten into an argument and since then things had been relatively peaceful. They'd settled into a new routine with no arguments between them. And life was good. Outside of school.

Never one to back down, Sherlock had gotten himself into quite a few fights. Nothing serious, of course, he was far too sophisticated for that. Often his side of the fight would be mind games while the opposition would try to insult him and end up confused. Manipulating them was child's play, really, and he'd be a liar to say he didn't enjoy it. Holding his deductive skills over others' heads was always of interest. Especially if it was pointing out that James was cheating on his girlfriend… with another male, no less.

With that last one, he might've made a mistake, because James did not take lightly to the questioning of his sexuality. James's friends and girlfriend didn't seem to impressed, either. Like always, Sherlock found himself cornered by quite a few people, holding his own as best as he could (which was, incidentally, very well). Unfortunately, while he was prepared for the normal arguments and stupid insults, he wasn't prepared for this.

James struck him. Hard. Hard enough that his nose snapped and gushed blood down the front of his favourite (and not to mention extremely expensive) tailored suit. Yes, even at fifteen the boy chose suits over otherwise - t-shirts were too boring for him. But that wasn't important at all. What was important was the very shocking amount of blood splattering down his front and the amount of people jeering at him.

Just before the teachers arrived and broke up the crowd, Sherlock got over his shock and put on his best arrogant grin. James still looked infuriated, but more so shocked by the damage he'd done with his own hands. Sherlock made sure to have his full attention before declaring, "Well, that was sweet, James, but I don't think your boyfriend would appreciate you hitting on me."

Damn, he was lucky a teacher showed up right then. He'd never particularly liked teachers but this one was his knight in shining armour. Yes, he was whisked to the office for fighting, and yes, Mycroft would be furious, but at least he wasn't a Sherlock-smear on the wall.

He could have easily smashed his fist into James's face and felt the satisfying crunch of bone under his hand but that was in no way Sherlock. No, he played mind games, from day one. And as long as he got in the final word, he'd be happy.

He may be covered in blood and his nose may be aching, but at least he'd gotten that luxury.

**A/N: Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. Fighting isn't proper.**


	3. Broken Glass

**A/N: Okay, I realize it's been a while. I've actually had this done for quite a while but kept forgetting to put it up. Sorry, guys! Hope you can forgive me. Oh, by the way, I don't own Sherlock. ;D**

"You, Mr. Holmes, are lucky you aren't being expelled! And Mr. Rose, be glad all you're getting is a suspension!"

The words were growled from the throat of a very overweight, short man that sat across from both boys, pudgy hands folded primly in front of him. If not for the weight problem, he could've come off as quite sophisticated but this act was just laughable on him. Sherlock had been having trouble keeping himself from smiling through the entire thing. He'd been making his situation worse with every comment but it hardly bothered him. No matter what this idiot did, his future would stay the same because Mycroft would fix it. Mycroft never let anything go bad for him.

"Mr. Sander, why are you threatening me with expulsion," Sherlock asked, his voice advertising a mixture of amusement and boredom, "when this idiot is the one who struck me? I hardly think you have any grounds to expel me for having a friendly little chat with him."

"First of all, Mr. Holmes, verbal assault is considered bullying and is unacceptable," Mr. Sander snapped, his eyes glittering. "Secondly, you watch how you speak to me. You are not an equal and should recognize this."

"I'm quite sure you don't mean that," a voice flooded into the room. Sherlock positively beamed, realizing who was speaking. He turned around in his seat, unashamed to have his brother coming to his rescue. It might not go over well socially but who said he had to care? "Sherlock is equal to you in society's eyes. Unless, of course, you're talking intellectually, in which case you aren't even close to equals. I think we both know which one is superior here."

"Mycroft," Sherlock breathed, grinning. His brother might have a way with speaking when it came to governments and heads of countries, but he was obviously withholding any of the (faked) respect normally shown. And he was glad for it, actually. Glad that Mycroft was putting his brother before his job and his normal attitude. It felt… nice, actually.

"Sherlock," he acknowledged. There was no smile on his face, however, not even for his brother. Sherlock frowned at this.

"You have no right to be here!" Mr. Sander spluttered, finally having recovered from the shock of Mycroft's sudden appearance and venom-filled voice. Now his face was flushed red, his eyes bulging, his words full of spite. "How did you get in? You should be in class. Get out, right now! You have no right to strut into my office and start sputtering insults!"

"I'm not insulting you, I'm pointing out fact," Mycroft replied calmly. "And, fortunately, I'm not a student. In fact, I have a right to be here. Sherlock is my brother. He is not to be affected by this at all. He did nothing wrong besides defending himself verbally. Had he assaulted Mr. James Rose, I would agree with a suspension. However, he hasn't done a thing. Understood?" Mr. Sander didn't say a word but Mycroft counted it as a victory anyway. "Come along, Sherlock."

Sherlock was on his feet in a flash, following his brother out of the office. Behind them, Mr. Sander was screaming at them to get back (obviously he wasn't done throwing a tantrum over two boys fighting in the hallway) but they ignored him. The moment they left the school Sherlock might've laughed but his brother hadn't said a word, hadn't even looked at him. It was perplexing. Why bother storming in and protecting him like that if he was just going to stop speaking afterwards?

The ride home was silent, filled with the tension that had frustrated them only three months earlier. They avoided each other's eyes, preferring to stare out the window or at the man driving the car. The man actually did interest Sherlock quite a bit. He was strangely boring for an individual employed by Mycroft, led an ordinary life, only did this for the pay. Maybe that was part of the reason Mycroft kept him: he didn't care all that much about the job so he didn't speak.

By the time the car pulled to a stop outside their relatively small house, Sherlock was almost gasping for clean, tension-free air. He exited the car as quickly as possible and was in the house just as fast, however his plans to run up to his room were stopped when his brother grabbed his shoulder roughly and pushed him into a wall. Shocked, he didn't even move at all. Mycroft had never - _ever_ - put his hands on him, not like that.

"Sherlock, what were you thinking?" Mycroft wasn't yelling. Instead, his voice was a deadly whisper, the type of calm that suggested he was plotting murder. Sherlock had only occasionally heard his brother use this tone and it had terrified him when he was younger. Now it simply worried him. "You know you can't afford to be doing this. Do you realize you pulled me out of a meeting with the Queen?"

Sherlock struggled under his grip, his worry quickly morphing into frustration. "You could have stayed. I would've handled it fine."

"No you wouldn't have, and we both know that. I repeat: what the hell were you thinking? Getting into fights at school-"

"If I recall correctly, HE punched ME!"

"Doesn't mean you weren't in the wrong."

Sherlock glared, a pale hand wrapping around his brother's arm. He forced Mycroft away, ducking under the next hand meant to catch him. He'd actually expected his brother to be maybe a tiny bit proud at how well he'd held his own, even with blood running down his face (which, incidentally, he still needed to clean out of his suit) but the reaction had been, and still was, quite the opposite. It was frustrating, infuriating - it reminded him so much of Mummy that he wanted to lash out with a fist. Well, this was new. Violence was never his area.

"Go back to your important government work," Sherlock spat, his words poison. "Obviously it's more important to you than me. I could have bloody well hit him back, you know that? And I didn't. Because it would've upset you. So go back to your damn government work and tell yourself you're going somewhere, because you're not. I'm done with you."

"Sherlock, I didn't mean-" Mycroft tried desperately, but it was too late, the damage had been done. Sherlock was up the stairs and out of sight in a flash, this time locking the door behind him. It wasn't as if Mycroft couldn't pick the lock with ease but somehow this made him feel more secure. Growling in his anger, Sherlock threw himself down on the bed again. He contemplated calling Lestrade but decided against it. What reason did he have this time? Last time he'd manufactured a reason and, considering there were no open murder investigation reported about in the paper at that time, he had absolutely nothing to back himself up with if he decided to give Scotland Yard a call.

Somehow Lestrade had gotten to him in a good way. He'd started calling on the nights he knew Lestrade had shifts, preferring to talk to him rather than the rest of the idiots at Scotland Yard. Because Lestrade put up with him, listened to him, actually praised him occasionally, and, though he'd never admit it, he quite appreciated everything. He even liked the attention.

But now was no time to be calling Lestrade or anyone at Scotland Yard for that matter. He was simply too frustrated and had absolutely no reason to do so in the first place. Alternatively, he huffed angrily and glared at the ceiling, as if it was Mycroft above him instead. In his mind he fought with his brother, going over different ways that the situation might escalate, but he couldn't have predicted exactly what happened.

In his mind, Mycroft came up to his room and knocked on the door as he had before. Mycroft would pick the lock and storm in, yelling at him. He'd either stop right away or they'd get into a huge fight, but no matter the option the outcome would be the same: they'd end up laughing and awkwardly embracing. Everything would go back to normal, and they'd be happy.

Instead, none of this occurred. Mycroft did not even bother to come to his room, didn't even speak to him for days, actually. In those days both brothers were left stewing in their own frustration, anger growing with each second. Somehow, however, the tension wasn't snapped with an argument or explosion or physical fight of some sort. Instead, Mycroft broke the silence with a simple, "Pass the milk," and things went back to normal.

Almost.

* * *

Somehow that had been the start of it all. The tip of the iceberg, perhaps. Because there was much more to come than the Holmes brothers could ever imagine. Once so close, they were not destined to stay that way. Over the weeks following their second fight, Sherlock's nose had healed but their relationship hadn't quite. They went about things as normal, however, but never spoke of the incident again. It was part of the past and they had to leave it there… outwardly. Inwardly, they grew frustrated with one another.

By the time Sherlock turned sixteen, things seemed to have smoothed themselves out fairly well. James was no longer a problem (Mycroft had taken care of him quite well, and, surprisingly, his methods hadn't included murder). Mycroft and Sherlock were close again, but there was now a tiny thing between them, perhaps like an elephant in the room. It was like broken glass - once dropped, it could be put back together, but there would always be cracks. Their sibling relationship was much the same.

It was a late day in April, a dreary one at that, when Sherlock was invited to a social gathering, of sorts. He didn't know much of the details besides the idea that there would be illegal substances there. Normally he would ignore this sort of invitation, if he got one at all, but Mycroft was being abnormally irritable and Sherlock leapt for any excuse to leave the house. They'd recently celebrated his sixteenth birthday, just the week before, and since then things had all been going downhill. It was frustrating, really.

And so he took the chance to get out of the house and walked down to the school grounds. It was immediately obvious where this 'social gathering' was. Flames and lights danced far in the field, hidden from the road by the school, but the smells were far from masked. He shuddered. Alcohol, obviously. He'd never particularly liked that. And there were the other things, too.

Drugs. Having tried them when he was younger (only six years old at that), one would think he'd stay away, especially considering it had been a near-death experience. But Sherlock found himself caught up in the gathering. He didn't speak often, only to those he truly knew, but that was alright because no one sought him out either. Every single person there seemed high or intoxicated. It made for interesting company.

When he himself was offered a needle, he took it, but stared at it for a good minute. Peer pressure wasn't going to push him to do this, he'd never particularly cared what the rest of the student body thought. Surprisingly, it wasn't images of his six-year-old self nearly dying from cocaine overdose, nor thoughts of how 'cool' this would make him be, that decided the course of action. He could see this as an escape - a way out of the boredom that had drove him nearly insane in the past week. And he could somehow see Mycroft, feel the frustration with his brother. Wouldn't it be a good way to get back at him? Throw the family values in his face?

Then again, it wasn't as though Mycroft was to find out about this at all. As far as he knew or cared, Sherlock was skipping through meadows singing children's songs. Somehow he tended to forget his brother was no longer the sort-of-innocent fifteen-year-old that had existed before their mother's death.

With a deadly sort of calm, he placed the needle tip against his skin, grimacing. If he did this, there was no going back. He forced the images of his brother, his mother, his six-year-old self, and his father out of his mind. And with just as deadly precision, he pushed forward, the silver tip stabbing into his delicate skin. It hadn't hurt, not really, but he shuddered anyway. He was lightly shaking as he allowed the chemicals into his system.

What happened next he'll never recall. But that was all it had taken to give him a new, terrible habit. That was all it had taken to completely transform him from who he was before and who he was to be. Much the same as his mother, he was able to function well, but only to a point. The never violent Sherlock reversed his principles whenever under the effects, and he hated it - yet he couldn't let go.

It would only be so long until Mycroft figured out. And then the world would explode around him.


	4. Revelations

**A/N: Chapter four. Yay. :') Please enjoy, but I don't own Sherlock, k?**

Surprisingly, things did not blow up right away. It took nearly a year for Mycroft to notice the difference. For a man who prided himself in seeing the finer details, he (much like his brother) had a tendency to miss the things that were right in his face. Sherlock hadn't even bothered hiding his symptoms because he knew: the best way to hide things from Mycroft was to do so in plain sight. With that in mind, he was guaranteed it would be at least a few months before anyone took notice.

The needles became his dark side and with it cigarettes. He absolutely hated the latter but his system was hooked and, if he decided to stop smoking, hiding the withdrawal symptoms from Mycroft would be nearly impossible. It was actually the smoke that first caught his brother's attention. Not the needles, not the constant trips out, nor the occasional asking for large sums of money. Mycroft was oblivious to all this. But when he came home one day and found himself nearly choking on cigarette smoke, things became blatantly obvious.

"What the hell? Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled up the stairs, fanning the smoke away from his face. He grimaced. There was only one possible perpetrator but surely Sherlock wouldn't smoke. Surely he'd have noticed his brother picking up bad habits like this. Still grimacing, he bolted up the stairs, coughing with each step. Had Sherlock spent the whole day here? How many cigarettes did it take to fill a house with this much smoke? It was a wonder the smoke detectors weren't going off. Then again, they'd probably been dismantled.

"Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?" he yelled despite the promises to himself that he would no longer fight with his brother. Since the second fight, their lives hadn't exactly turned back the way he wanted. Now that he thought about it, actually, things really seemed to change around Sherlock's sixteenth birthday. He hadn't paid much mind to it, the slight changes - even the major changes - but now it was in his face and he mentally slapped himself for dismissing this.

"Sherlock!" One more yell and another non-answer. Growling, he lunged for the door, quite surprised to find it ajar. How odd, Sherlock was never one to leave his door open. Privacy was key in their world. This would, however, explain how the smoke had escaped into the rest of the house. He twitched, widening the gap made by the door, and was met with another cloud of smoke, shielding Sherlock from view. Mycroft doubled over, coughing because of the sheer amount of smoke, but Sherlock either didn't care, didn't hear, or didn't see. And the thought that Sherlock wasn't seeing this bothered him. Seeing was key to their observation.

Now that he thought about it, they hadn't done a round of 'right or wrong?' deductions in a little over a year. Guilty as he felt for it, though, this wasn't the time to be bothered by games. Now he was simply worried, worried for Sherlock's wellbeing and frustrated by his brother's actions. He straightened up, using one hand to wave away the smoke as best as he could. Things didn't clear completely but it let him see and breathe better.

He was completely unprepared by what he saw. Laying on his bed was Sherlock, completely oblivious to the world. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Up his bare arms were the telltale signs of needles, many of them, probably used over the course of at least a year. Mycroft shuddered. How did he not notice this? By his brother's side was another needle, completely empty of whatever substance it held. Cigarette butts littered the bed, all (thankfully) unlit except for the one in his mouth. And as Mycroft stared at it all, worry turned to anger and he exploded.

"Sherlock, bloody hell! What were you thinking?" Mycroft screamed at him, reaching out to grip his brother's shoulder. Sherlock turned only a bit, blue eyes unfocussed, a snarl twisted on his features. "What IS this? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Not really, no," Sherlock replied. He was startled when the cigarette was ripped from his mouth and tossed at the unfortunately closed window. It bounced off the glass and hit the floor, thankfully not starting the flooring on fire. Shock turned to anger and he sat straight up, barely missing the needle point with his leg, and glared fiercely. "What the hell was that for?"

"What do you mean, what was that for? Sherlock, look around! You're going to bloody well kill yourself if you keep this-" He was cut off abruptly as Sherlock stood up and shoved him backwards. His back hit the wall and the air was knocked out of him, leaving him to simply stare. In any other situation he'd have the upper hand - after all, Sherlock had never been much more than a twig - but this was somehow different. He'd been completely unprepared and he couldn't - wouldn't - bring himself to raise a hand at his brother, even in defence. Never again… he hoped.

The promise obviously didn't apply to his younger brother, who had so easily overpowered him. Sherlock looked absolutely insane. His hands twitched, his eyes gleamed in rage. Mycroft could only wonder exactly how long all of this had been going on. The drugs, the smoking - all of it. How long had he missed the signs? And what would the consequences be?

"Sherlock, you have to stop," he spoke, voice the sort of 'deadly calm' that he knew always got to Sherlock. "All of this. I don't know how long this has been going on…"

"A year. A whole year and you didn't know it, you stupid-"

"…but that's not the point. If you want to stay in this house, you have one year. One damn year. Or the day you turn eighteen will be the very last one you spend in this house. Understood? The smoking goes away. I will get you nicotine patches if it helps. The drugs stop. Not a single needle is allowed to pass over the threshold of this house. You've been warned."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left a very vulnerable Sherlock behind him.

* * *

He tried. Honest to God, he actually tried for the first few months. He swapped out cigarettes for nicotine patches, learned to function even better under the influence. But no matter how hard he tried, he was constantly tied to his drug of choice, brought back to the needles by an unquenchable urge. He only ever once tried to stop completely, and that had been terrible. When he wasn't shaking and throwing up from withdrawal symptoms, he was bored.

Boredom was terrible. Boredom was the same as the death of a loved one - to normal people. His brain would stop and it would rot without any indication of what to do to stop it. There simply was never enough of anything to keep him interested. Not enough cases reported in the news, not enough experiments he hadn't done a thousand times, not enough books to keep his interest for long. The only thing that was guaranteed to keep him thinking (and therefore keep him alive and interested in the world around him) was the needle. He hated to admit it, but it gave him everything he needed.

So he tried. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Mycroft hadn't spoken to him for an entire week after he'd been discovered with the needles and cigarettes but even his brother's disappointment wasn't enough to pull him away. So he took a different route. After the first three months, he stopped trying to quit. The needles, the drugs, they were as necessary as water. He might've said as necessary as food, but, if he'd had a small appetite before, now he had none at all. Food almost literally had to be forced down his throat, and even then he was constantly underweight.

It was far easier than he'd bargained for. Mycroft was constantly checking his room, constantly searching and disposing of everything he found. Sherlock found this a nuisance and quickly found a way around things: he picked the hiding spots far more carefully. If his dear older brother bothered to truly look, he would've discovered the stash hidden in the bottom of the dresser drawers in his very own bedroom, or perhaps he would've noticed the needle or two carefully enclosed in a hollowed out book.

Nearly ten months after their third argument, a third block was pulled from the tower that was the once-strong relationship of Mycroft and Sherlock. The tower began to lean and wobble, ready to fall over at any time. Because Mycroft had left the last ten months up to his brother - for the most part. However, he did not appreciate waking up on the couch and nearly being stabbed by a haphazardly hidden needle captured between the cushion and the back of the couch. He'd actually had to restrain himself from yelling at Sherlock, instead preferring to make some calls.

The first was to a rehab clinic. The best in the country, he was told, nestled in the heart of London. They had on-hand therapists and doctors for every step of the journey, apparently. But this wasn't what worried him at all. What worried him was Sherlock. The damn boy was too smart for his own good; Mycroft had no doubt that the seventeen-year-old would manage to run circles around, and confuse, the therapists. He had to hope this would work.

"Sherlock!" he yelled up the stairs, trying to keep his tone steady. It was surprisingly easy, considering how long he'd spent lying to heads of countries. "Sherlock, do get dressed. And remember your tie this time! I'll have you dropped off at school."

"Why would you do that?" came the muffled reply. Mycroft chose to ignore it and went about his own business as normal, showering and dressing in his finest suit. By the time Sherlock got downstairs, he looked like he'd been awake for hours. Nothing was out of the ordinary at all. He did, however, frown upon seeing his brother.

"Didn't I just tell you to wear a tie?"

"First of all," Sherlock glared, "you're not Mummy. Second, I hate ties. I look better without one."

Mycroft snorted. "Vain, as always."

Sherlock frowned, looking as though he might say something, but Mycroft reached forward and pulled him into an embrace before he could do so. He struggled for a moment, then thankfully relaxed, cautiously putting his pale arms around his brother. They stayed like that for nearly two minutes before breaking away, smiles on their faces that hadn't been there in quite a while. These were smiles that were only reserved for each other.

Sherlock, however, couldn't help but be suspicious. It wasn't as though Mycroft was just being 'nice;' he couldn't place the last time his brother had been like that. Mycroft, on the other hand, turned around and made his way out the door, expecting Sherlock to follow him. He'd been seized by that sudden urge to embrace, just on the off chance that Sherlock would hate him for what was to come.

And hate him he did.

It was worse than that damn Christmas dinner six years back when they'd gotten into an argument over where the turkey had come from. That had been childish. It was worse than the occasional bout of resentfulness over how protective Mycroft happened to be. That was simply… _Sherlock_. This was far worse.

Mycroft had never known his brother to be the type to kick and scream. Well, he wasn't screaming, but he was definitely kicking and fighting in attempt to stay in the car. And once he was out of the car, things only got worse. It was to the point that Mycroft had to call the two assistants sitting in the car to come and help. They literally had to shove him in the door. The commotion brought on many onlookers and even the people inside the clinic seemed surprised.

Apparently, most people checked themselves in. Well… it wasn't quite the same in this instance, and he couldn't care less. As long as his brother got over the drug abuse and things could go back to normal.

He knew better, though. It wasn't in Sherlock's nature to forgive - the past few years was evidence of this. He'd never forgiven Sherlock, and Sherlock had never truly forgiven him, for the arguments. They'd been so close before, rarely arguing… normally Christmas dinner was the worst time of the year for them both (unfortunately they were always subjected to this dinner; perhaps they were both so resentful because they hated the holiday) and the rest of the year would be good. Not any more.

Mycroft left. As soon as his brother was safely in with the therapist, he turned and he left, not even bothering to visit work that day. He returned to the original Holmes family home, and simply wandered around, glancing at everything. He lingered in his own room and then his brother's, wondering what had changed so much since they were boys.

Of course, he didn't have all day to wander around. Not even close. About three hours after leaving Sherlock in the clinic, he received a panicked call that he'd really and truly expected.

"I don't know how it happened… He… he just jumped out the window! He's insane! Never bring him back! He drove the doctor to tears! Oh my God… he jumped out the window! It was insane!"

Mycroft actually smiled a bit at the call despite himself. At least Sherlock was Sherlock, on drugs or not.

And then he realized: he'd have to go track him down.

Sighing, Mycroft left the house behind for a second time. This time he promised never to look back, promised to never again compare what they used to be to what they were now.

Because things weren't going back to the way they were and he needed to accept it.

But damn did it hurt.


End file.
